October 15, 2011

LAST RIDE HOME is a 4 piece alternative metal band formed in November 2009. They have performed and won many college festivals such as Umang 10', Grand Exito 10', Viva 10' and a few more. They have also played a few gigs at Not Just Jazz By The Bay, Irish Pub, and at other college festivals.

They are inspired by bands like Three Days Grace, System of a Down, Limp Bizkit, Blessthefall, Avenged Sevenfold and many many more.

October 5, 2011

I see your innocence mirror my skepticism in those deep black eyes of yours. It brings a tear to mine.

Where did I go wrong? How did I end up being the antithesis to your smile?

I was once like you. I believed in nobility. I believed that there was good without a “catch”.

How did I come to this stage?

I envy you. You find your happiness in a slice of pizza, a Tom and Jerry episode, you’ll wrestling with each other.

I smile. But its fleeting.

I laugh. But my laughter is adulterated with melancholy.

I find myself surrounded by unexplained cynicism. I’m sure your life isn't perfect. But you really do make it seem like it is.

I wait with bated breath for the day you find your purpose. I’m still looking for mine and trust me, it isn’t easy.

Every moment of my existence is laden with questions. Where am I? What do I do? How do I make my existence mean something to you? For you know dear, I’m nothing if not living for you.

My happiness is in your silly grin, your curly top.

My serenity is in your bear hug, the music you make.

My hope is watching you do something dynamic.

My hopelessness is in your tears.

My dread is in your insecurity.

My pride is in your achievements.

As much as I envy you, your immaturity and innocence, I love you with every fiber of my being.

I just hope one day you see how much you guys mean to me.

For now I’ll settle for late-night Green Day and Linkin Park concert marathons, football matches and pop-corn, random kicking and fighting for that last piece of cake and the last scoop of ice-cream and kicking you out of my room coz you’re playing football in it.

**Look at the stars. Look how they shine for you, and everything you do.**

September 22, 2011

I try my best to battle the fast forming tears in my eyes….tears I thought I was never capable of.

‘Those eyes you have, just like your fathers’ she smiles.

I’ve seen my grandmother dress up a million times and take the effort to look her best, and yet she has never looked lovelier than she looks now, on this bed. I guess it was the feeling of satisfaction that was wrapped around her.

I watch her drift in and out of her sleep and I taste my own salty tears. And suddenly, I blurt out “I love you. I love you very much”. And a wave of regret follows. Why haven’t I said this to her often? Why haven’t I thanked her for all that she’s done for me? All those afternoons spent listening to old music. All those times I was too busy doing something else, making other plans.

She smiles. Enthusiastically, even now.

I try hard not to fall asleep. Coz I don’t want to miss a single moment. The past few days have been hazy. Everyone has been taking turns to be by gran’s side. It’s like having a baby. But it’s the opposite end of the story.

Tons of novels, answering calls, caffeine overdose pretty much make up for last week. Optimism was the theme for everyone. Not that we were living in denial. We just wanted to evade the bitterness. In these final moments, I wanted the love to remain, to overcome the sadness and the bitterness.

My gran, she likes me a lot.

My mom, I know she wishes I was more lady-like and that I kept my room clean. My dad, he most likely wishes that I was more……..well, just more. My friends, they wish I was less random and don’t get stressed out too much.

But they all love me. All of them. But love isn’t the same as liking, is it? And I don’t know how complex love can be, so I settle for liking and acceptance. More than anything, my gran, she makes me feel like a real person. And honestly, I do know how difficult that can be. But it came so naturally to her.

I miss her already. Her soft hands, her sweet smelling Cuticura powder, her favorite word ‘beautiful’ , the sound of her voice singing songs, her lovely and genuine smile, all those small things made my gran the woman I loved so dearly. The woman whom I won’t hear hum while making food or play scrabble with and lose badly.

In her sickness, our family became closer than ever (see, she did good even in her final days). The awkward glances we gave each other all saying the same things, that we’ll cherish her forever. We all look for the right words to say. Some of us mentally prepare for what we’re going to say later at the condolence meet.

Although the million people’s lives she has touched, dare not put her in just a few words, I think I’ll need just one. Her favorite one as always. ‘Beautiful’.

July 25, 2011

I found this line scrawled on the
last page of my diary, which until not very long ago, I used to write in.

And now, I fail to recollect if these
lines were mine or borrowed. Google search does not yield me any results.
If you are reading these lines, tell me whether you’ve read them somewhere
else. And if they’re all mine then this is me, haunted by my own brainchild.

June 19, 2011

So, here I am playing the stare game with my laptop thinking
that it’s been really long since I’ve written a post. And I still have nothing
to write. So just like any self indulgent person, I am going to write about something
that I know very well – me! It’s not a very appealing topic. And, in my defense,
I did state the words 'self indulging'.

So, where do I begin? As a child I spent so much time on a collection
of certain ideas about life, love, existence and well, the most over-rated
actor – Salman Khan. But then, I grew up. Salman however, didn't.

I believed that growing up and becoming an adult would mean inconceivable
freedom. It would mean finally being cool and famous and surrounded by happy
people. I guess this was the case of most of you guys. But hey, I never said
that I’m special.

Time as a youngster was spent eating Maggi noodles in front
of the television, literally one foot away from the screen watching Small
Wonder and I Dream of Jeannie. I remember playing cricket in the living room with
my bro. And my clothes, oh dear god. I ranged from looking like a princess to a
street gangster. Rangeela, KKHH and Gulaam were my fashion guides. And the
pictures are never going to see the light of day.

Why am I telling you guys all this..? Damn I should have
thought of it before writing all this shit. I don’t want to delete it now because,
face it; nothing is scarier than a blinking cursor.

As a child I believed that life just happened. People fell
in love. People stayed in love. Damn I wish my parents took some videos of me
as a child. I would have at least something to look at whenever I cry that I’m growing
up too fast and that I miss my childhood days.

I believe kids of today are too aware and too snobbish and
too self absorbed. Even more than me. And believe me, I am really self
absorbed. I feel sad that they do not get to enjoy Parle Poppins, Goti Soda,
Rola Cola and Jolly Jelly (If I don’t get a single comment concerning this, I swear
I’ll change my name to Anna Ramdev)

My shrink tells me to be open and honest with people. He tells
me to share stuff. I love to keep everything to myself. I don’t see anything wrong
with doing that. But, I’m the one on the chair and he’s the one with the
degree. So here I go. And hey I’d be completing Chocolate Lover’s tag in the
process.

RULES:*Each tagged person must post ten things about
themselves**You have to choose and tag ten people**Go to their blogs and tell them you tagged them**No tags back**Have fun*

I never knew how to dance properly
until I was 15. I looked like a person doing the Robot dance and the Chicken
dance simultaneously.

Cockroaches petrify me. I literally
freeze and almost pass out when I see one.

I tend to classify people as those
better than me and people I’m better than. Hardly do I ever find an equal. I guess
that’s because I don’t know where I stand. Don’t ask me where you stand. I won’t
tell. And stop thinking about it.

I have freakishly long fingers and
toes. I think I belong to another species.

I have read all the books in the
Princess Diaries series, Harry Potter series and the Twilight series.

I would love to believe people
like Edward Cullen and secret worlds like in Harry Potter exist. I’ve tried my
best. And then I feel stupid.

I feel stupid most of the time.

I crack jokes when I’m nervous. I’m
not funny. I just want to fill awkward silences.

June 5, 2011

The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won,The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;But O heart! heart! heart!O the bleeding drops of red,Where on the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! My Captain! rise up and hear the bells;Rise up--for you the flag is flung for you the bugle trills,For you bouquets and ribboned wreaths for you the shores a-crowding,For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;Here Captain! dear father!This arm beneath your head!It is some dream that on the deck,You've fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still;My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will;The ship is anchored safe and sound, its voyage closed and done;From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;Exult O shores, and ring O bells!But I, with mournful tread,Walk the deck my Captain lies,Fallen cold and dead."

He read these lines over and over again, day after day. There was something magical about Walt Whitman that he could not give words to, something that gave him a celestial inspiration, something that reached into him and egged him on to write more and more.

He glanced at the scattered papers all around him.‘Souvenirs’, he called them. Souvenirs that mocked him. Souvenirs that mirrored his erudite incompetence.

He thought about the recent novels that had been published. They all revolved around the same trash- technologically advanced world, about spies that belong to secret organizations, about children superheroes. He thought about the death of literature. He mourned for the world’s loss. He thought literature surely deserved a eulogy. He sat down to write one.

He wasn’t worthy enough to write it. He knew. But still he continued writing.

He wrote for hours, days, weeks. He never stopped.

He mourned though his words, he wept about the words that were no longer an inspiration to many, and he grieved about his cherished writers and poets. He kept writing.

But he ran out of words. He wasn’t tired. His pen still had ink.

But he had no words.

He laughed at the irony. A writer with no words.

It was rather funny.

He was grappled by a paroxysm of laughter. He chuckled and snickered. He howled and roared. He laughed like a maniac and tears began to flow.

In a fit of glee, he drove his pen deep into his wrist and watch the blood rush out like ink.

His hand jerked and he knocked over the ink pot.

Red and blue merged together, giving rise to one of the most suitable metaphors.